Breglio and the Thief of Darkness

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The fog lay over the wood like forgotten thoughts, and the day was strangely clear—too clear. Breglio noticed immediately: the darkness was missing. Not the simple darkness of night, not the shadow of a leaf in the moonlight. But the deeper layers. The kind of darkness that nestles in crevices, lives in old cupboards, in the folds of forgotten time. It had vanished. From the niches beneath the mushroom roofs. From the depths of the hollow trees. Even in his lantern—the small, soot-stained one that usually flickered inexplicably, even without light—it remained silent and still. "Something steals the darkness," Breglio murmured, tightening his belt of glow-powder vials. The trail was elusive. No sound, no smell, no footstep in the moss. But there was a tug, a fleeting breath that moved between the branches like a thought that still had no name. Breglio followed it through thorns and twilight, past the Weeping Pine, through the Grey Moor, and into the Forest of the Backsides, where everything seemed to point inward somehow. There, in the shadow of a fungus-covered obelisk, he saw him: the thief. A gaunt figure, barely taller than Breglio himself, but narrow as a twisted twig. The cloak was woven from moth scales, in which shadows lived. No face was visible—just two smooth, shining surfaces where eyes should have been. Around him circled small creatures of darkness—creatures of pure darkness, folded like night paper. "You take what is not yours," Breglio said, and his voice did not tremble. The thief paused, a shadow creature in his hand, which immediately dissolved. "I take what has been forgotten," he whispered. "The darknesses that no one notices. That live in chests, under beds, in the fears between words. I am the last of my name—and without them, I am only an echo." "But we need them," Breglio replied. "The darknesses give things depth. Without them, only surface remains." A long silence. Then the thief began to dance—slowly, like fog in slow motion. Around him, shreds of shadow floated, swirling, weaving around each other, forming one face for a moment, then another—and finally falling to the ground like dust. "What do you offer me in return?" he asked. Breglio raised his lantern. No light emerged—but sound. A low hum that spoke of memories. Of nights spent awake. Of tears that didn't fall, and of promises made in the dark. "A part returns to the world," he said. "A part stays with you. Not stolen, but given." The thief lowered his head. And slowly, as if he himself were dissolving, he opened his cloak. The darkness within trembled, staggered—and floated away. Not fleeing, but returning home. The night in the roots grew deep again. The silence gained an edge. The shadows at the edges of the world found their places again. Only one darkness remained with the thief: the one Breglio gave him. "Not every darkness is to be feared," he said. And then he was gone—not vanished, but scattered, like smoke in thoughts.